Trade Your Heroes For Ghosts
by LittlePlasticCastle
Summary: Cleric John Preston thinks he can keep an inscrutable face, but others around him notice he's much more than he shows. Different points of view and insights into Preston's character.
1. Viviana

**Author's note: I'm ten years late watching this movie. I watched it a few days ago on the advice of _aethershine_. The movie wasn't perfect, but the ideas grabbed my attention. I wanted to dig deeper into the emotional development of some characters. Here is the result.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Equilibrium, any poem by Yeats, or any song by Pink Floyd.**

* * *

_So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,  
Blue skies from pain,  
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?  
A smile from a veil?  
Do you think you can tell?_

Pink Floyd, _Wish You Were Here_

* * *

**Viviana**

You have no idea. How many nights are sleepless now. Prozium grants us deep, dreamless sleep, that's one of the drug's side effects. I can't tell you where I've heard this, but I have. I guess I have always been on the lookout for a reason to cease my dose.

One night, I skipped a dose. I wouldn't be able to tell you why. It was instinctive. Maybe my mind was yearning for dreams. Maybe the residual human nature Father said Libria had eradicated was still there, deep inside me, stirring. It was scary, but I did it anyway. I had a plan. The next morning, I would smash the tiny vial against the porcelain of the bathroom sink, and I would let the water wash away the splints and the golden liquid.

I went to bed next to you, trying to keep my heartbeat steady. The drug hadn't completely worn off yet, but you were so good at detecting anything suspicious, I was afraid you would notice my treason right away. You didn't. You were lying on your side, facing me. My heart gave a little leap, something it had never done before. But you just looked at me for a second, you said goodnight and closed your eyes. Just like every night, you acknowledged that I was in bed with you, that everything was normal, and you fell asleep almost instantly.

I rolled over on my back and sighed. I knew my last interval of Prozium was still coursing through my veins, but soon I would be free. Somehow, something was already happening. Soon, I would be feeling - dreaming. I had no idea what it would be like. I was scared, and yet my whole body was tensed in anticipation. I laid like this for an hour, two hours, and I couldn't go to sleep. Finally, I turned around and looked at you.

You were not sleeping soundly like I thought you would. I had been too absorbed in my own sensations to notice. Your breathing was faster, and your fist was clenching the sheet. I didn't know what was happening. I had always slept so soundly - our children, too - I didn't think there was another way. And then, it dawned on me. You were dreaming. Despite the doses of Prozium, the drug you had taken every day since you were born, despite the even heavier doses Clerics were required to take, you were _still dreaming_.

In all the Tetragrammaton ceremonies I had come to with you, every government official had praised your infallible _instinct_. I was honored to be your wife - that the government had paired us to share a home and raise children - and I hoped this kind of compliments meant you would go far. I had never asked myself - how could Prozium not have killed any sort of instinct in you? It had killed it in me. If you died during one of your raids in the Nethers, the only difference in my life would be the new man they would pair me with. If they took Robbie or Lisa and shot them in front of me, I would feel nothing.

You sighed in your sleep. You sounded so innocent. A killer like you - innocent.

Suddenly, my throat clenched. I couldn't breathe. My face contorted in a grimace and my eyes burnt. It was terrifying. What was happening to me? Was that a stroke? Was I dying? Something hot streamed from my eyes onto my face. I wiped the liquid with my fingers, expecting the vivid red of blood. It wasn't red. It looked like water. I tasted it. It was salty. When I was least expecting it, my throat contracted another time, a shudder raked my body and a dry sound escaped my mouth. I clasped my hand on my lips, willing them shut. Fear of being discovered by you seemed to make this weird condition stop.

With one last glance at you, I got up and quietly walked to the children's bedroom. I had never been there since they were old enough to sleep through the night. I sat on a small stool between their beds. They were sleeping so peacefully I felt a stab of pain in my heart. Was their sleep so sound because they were children, or because they were under Prozium? I didn't dare consider the second option. I lightly laid a hand on Robbie's back, another on Lisa's curls. The warmth emanating from their little bodies seemed to warm me to my core. I resisted another urge to cry. I now understood what that unexpected condition was. It was an _emotion_. That was me, feeling. I took a deep breath to steady myself and I watched them sleep.

Robbie and Lisa were yours and mine, but like us, like all the children in Libria, they had been conceived in the Lab of Reproduction. When we were little, they told us how children used to be conceived, and how they were born in the old world. They made it sound like a horror story. We were thankful we would never have to go through this.

They had taken reproductive cells from us the day we got paired and they had kept them, waiting for the right time to make the children - when Libria would need a certain number of babies to keep the pyramid of ages steady. After our cells were taken, they sterilized me. They never sterilized the men. I had never been struck by the injustice of it before tonight. Sex was not forbidden in Libria, but its purpose wasn't reproduction. Sex was just the exception, not the rule. During our pairing ceremony, Father's officials said we could do it sometimes, as it helped cleanse the body. Since we were paired, we had had sex twice. I hadn't felt any better after, and neither had you, so there was no reason to repeat the experience.

They had handed us Robbie, and then Lisa, without prior notice. Each baby came with a manual of instructions, just like our fridge and oven. We followed them coldly, because it was our duty to ensure these babies lived.

I touched my stomach. I had never carried my own children, and suddenly I ached for it. Libria was doing everything for a reason - and they certainly knew there was no feeling more powerful than the tiny glimmer of love that a woman feels at the first signs of life inside her. The tiny glimmer of love that sparks between two people who know they are expecting a third. Love was the first feeling they wanted to uproot from "human nature". My hands almost curled into fists at this thought. I swore I would love these children with all my heart. I would make up for all the time lost not loving them. I didn't know how that would happen, or how it would feel, but I would do it.

One thing I was sure of: I was already in love with you.

You have no idea how hard it has been to hide my crime from you. Every morning, every night, I smashed the capsule of Prozium against the sink and washed it away. It was harder to skip the intervals during the day, but I soon became the expert of opening the shooting gun against my side, sliding out a capsule with my thumb, and pretending to give myself a shot with the empty gun. There was always someone in the crowd who would tread on the vial and break it.

In the evening, when you came back home, I had to suppress the urge to run and hug you - or just smile at you. You have no idea how sad the lives we live are - not until you cease your dose. My natural instinct was to smile at you, touch you, laugh as you would take your children in your arms and kiss their foreheads. What could be so wrong about it that Father was so intent to stop it?

Every night, as you drift to sleep, I watch you. I never knew how beautiful you were until I started feeling. I can't get enough of looking at you, and I can only do it when you sleep. I don't think anyone perceives beauty under Prozium. The first time I saw you, during the pairing ceremony, I thought you looked strong and healthy, a perfect partner to raise children and make Father proud. The kind of husband who would make a brilliant career and provide for his family. That was all. My heart rate was just as steady as any other day. And now, just looking at you sleeping peacefully, how fast it beats! How beautiful the world is when you stop taking the drug!

One night, I made the mistake of moving closer to you. I reached up to your face and caressed your hair, touched your cheek. I couldn't help myself. This could be my only chance. I leaned in closer and kissed your lips. It was a very light kiss, but it still woke you. Your dark eyes flew open and you looked at me. I was scared. I was certain at this moment that you knew. But, amazingly, you didn't do what I expected. You reached up with your hand, cupped my head and returned my kiss. I don't know what made you do that. It was the middle of the night, and your dose of Prozium was probably running low in your blood. There was something in your eyes that told me I was safe. I let you kiss me. We made love that night. Or rather, you had sex, and I made love to you. My whole body and mind were overcome with powerful emotions. It was all I could do not to tell you how much I loved you. I could see in your eyes that the dark fire that had been there a few moments ago was gone, and that you weren't feeling anything anymore. It should have been the happiest moment of my life with you. It was the saddest. After that, I never attempted to touch you again that way.

You dream every night and you probably have no idea. You're so different, John. Your dreams are my clue. Prozium is just the surface. It anesthetizes you, but you're still capable of feelings. I don't know how you go on, doing what you do, adding new sense-offenders to your killing list every day. I can only hope this is not who you truly are. I can only hope you will be able to forgive yourself one day.

I have come to love Robbie and Lisa too. I love them so much it's painful. But it's also so wonderful I wouldn't give up this feeling for the world. I'm less careful around them, which is probably not very wise of me, but I just can't help myself. When you're not home, I hug them tight, taking in the scent of their hair, of their warm little bodies. They usually let me hug them and kiss them. They don't know that it's wrong yet. They don't know what their mom is, not yet. One day - because I know this can't last forever - they will have to live with the knowledge that their mother was a sense-offender. Thank goodness their father is the highest-ranking Grammaton Cleric to make up for this disgrace. Also, deep down, I hope they'll remember the hugs and kisses. I hope they'll remember the warmth. I hope they'll remember the love.

This kind of knowledge may come in useful someday - and this is my greatest hope of all.


	2. Mary

**Author's note: I've only seen the movie once, so I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies in chronology or dialogues. I had to go with my memories of it. Feel free to correct me if anything is clearly off.**

* * *

_Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?  
Hot ashes for trees?  
Hot air for a cool breeze?  
Cold comfort for change?  
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?_

Pink Floyd, _Wish You Were Here_

* * *

**Mary**

I'm sure you Clerics know a lot about sense-offenders. But there's one thing you all seem to ignore: when a sense-offender meets another one, whatever the disguise, they know.

So, yes, Cleric, as soon as your squad burst into my home and I saw you following them, I knew you were one of us. You still carried yourself upright, wrapped in your black Cleric coat, and your face was hard and blank when you faced me. But there is no fooling an old sense-offender: right there, in the smallest twitch of your eye, I saw the slightest flicker of panic at the idea of what you were about to do.

How long had you ceased your dose? Had you even ceased it? In some very rare people, the drug doesn't kill all emotions - it just mutes them, but feelings keep running deep. To tell you the truth, most sense-offenders become who they are because they accidentally skip an interval and discover they _like_ feeling. They like it so much they're ready to put their lives in danger for it, to go live like cockroaches in the Nethers or like rats in the Underground. Fewer are those who can shake off the poison from within. Like me. Or like you.

You're beautiful, your features almost aristocratic, your body perfectly molded into the shape they wanted you to take. You're beautiful, in the way animals are in their innocence. That's my only consolation when I see you: unlike so many other Clerics, you're a good man, unwittingly trapped in the body of a killer.

Your movements were fluid and cat-like, and for a second you reminded me of the cat that I used to play with when I was little. My mother had brought it home one day, a black kitten with big golden eyes, and I had instantly fallen in love with it. At that time, I didn't know owning an animal was a sense-offense, and I didn't know my mother was a sense-offender. I took my intervals of Prozium religiously, but I could still feel - I loved my kitten, and I loved my mom. They came to our unit to arrest her a few months later, and they shot the cat with their guns as it was trying to run away. I watched the scene indifferently, but something was breaking down inside me, like a dam, washing everything out. I could understand why they were taking my mother, but the cruelty of killing my cat... It was more innocent than I was. I kept taking my intervals because there was no other way to survive. I ceased the dose when I turned twenty-five. By then, I felt strong enough to hide it from Father and his henchmen.

You walked through the smashed wall into my cache. I wanted to warn you not to tread on my precious memories - the small things of the past I had gathered meticulously, that I loved touching and looking at when I felt in need of beauty and humanity. _Tread softly,_ Cleric, _because you tread on my dreams. _

Your hand lingered on a shelf, caressed a book. Yours were tiny, imperceptible movements. Only someone who could feel could understand touching something that way involved a feeling. That's why your squad didn't move, didn't seem to notice your behavior as odd. They probably weren't used to question the motives of a high-ranking Tetragrammaton Cleric. When you finally got out of the cache, the flicker of panic in your eyes had given way to furious fire. You grabbed me by the arm and yelled at me. Your hands were strong and I couldn't escape. I was more scared for you than for me. Everyone present knew I was a sense-offender, there was no denying it. But you - I doubted anyone except me knew, until that moment.

That's what Prozium does to you, Cleric. When you stop taking it after a lifetime of blankness, you find yourself like a child learning to walk. Until you know how to name the wonderful, furious, scary, addictive sensations your body and mind are capable of, until you learn how to control them, you're at your most vulnerable. And my heart ached for you. You were only a newborn, so pure, and yet already stained by crimes they made you commit.

You ordered the squad to delay the processing - a shudder ran down my spine - and keep me for interrogation. _She could be useful_, you said. Useful for what? I doubted there was a legitimate motive behind your order. But as time goes by, it becomes harder and harder to coldly send fellow sense-offenders to their deaths, you'll see. Maybe that's what it was about. The guards took me and I threw one last glance at you, willing you to calm down. I didn't care about the squad, but I could feel your partner's eyes on you. He was dangerous. I could tell he was one of the best Clerics - the instinctive ones - by the vaguely satisfied, sadistic smirk on his face as he watched me being marched outside my home. I was surprised you didn't know it. Or you probably knew, but at your stage, your emotions still got the better of you. As they were transporting me outside to the dreaded black van, I found myself praying for you.

They put me in a cell and I waited there for days. Nobody talked to me. They were not allowed to interact with sense-offenders. Only trained Tetragrammaton Clerics were, for interrogation purposes. And then they came to tell me I had to transfer to an interrogation cell. It wasn't the first time I'd been taken there, and it wasn't the first time I'd talked to you. You are a fascinating creature, Cleric. Every time you come to see me, you're different. You evolve. You seem to get a better grasp on what's happening to you. I'll never know if you're actually off the drug, but it doesn't matter. You can feel either way, and that's the only thing that matters.

When you enter the small concrete cell this time, I know this is going to be the last one. I'm suddenly terrified at the thought that I'll never see you again. All sense-offenders know they're going to brutally die eventually. It's the risk you've got to take when you choose a life of emotion. I'm not afraid to die, Cleric. I'm afraid to die before I see what you can accomplish.

You sit across the table and you look at me. Your gaze is painfully piercing, but I hold it anyway. You try hard to keep your face impassive, but your eyes are wide and your pupils dilated like an animal in pain. I do the only thing I can instinctively think of when I see a fellow human being suffer: I extend my hand just a little, not sure if I should be so bold as to cover your hand with mine. You turn your head sharply in the direction of the movement. I freeze. I'm pretty sure you're not here to brutalize me, but I wouldn't push my luck too much.

And then you pull a small metal case out of your coat's breast pocket, and you place it on the table. When you open it, the contents spill out of it - papers, photographs, and a red ribbon Errol, an old friend, had given me. I used to tie my hair back with it. You grab one of the photographs and almost shove it to my face.

"What is this?", you growl.

I look at you, and the pain is still there. That's me on the picture, looking into the distance. I wasn't that much younger when the picture was taken, but I feel a million years older than the young woman I used to be at that time. Next to me stands Errol, smiling, and around us it's bright and sunny, a carefree spring day away from the city, away from the Nethers, far into whatever remains of the countryside. Errol is dead, I'm almost dead, but the person who took the photograph is still alive. Is that who you've come to ask me about? Because I'm never going to reveal his identity to a Tetragrammaton Cleric, that's for sure. It's the first rule you learn when you become acquainted with the Underground.

"How do you know this man?", you ask again, your voice insistent.

You're not here to ask me about Jürgen, I realize. You're here to ask me about Errol. "He was my friend," I answer you in a soft voice. "He's dead."

"Yes," you say, with a tiny nod. "I killed him."

I stare at you, horrified. Errol's death was a very painful experience for me. I still miss him terribly. But it was to be expected. Being partners with the best Cleric of Libria, there couldn't be long before his treason was discovered. No, I'm horrified for you. At this precise moment, your struggle to contain your contradictory emotions seems almost too much. You're battling your own guilt. That's the worst kind. We sense-offender all have to go through this terrible phase, and some of us never forgive themselves. But you - after all you've done - this must be excruciating for you.

"How did you know this man?" you ask again, your voice lower, menacing.

"I told you he was my friend," I answer in all honesty.

Errol had fallen in love with me as soon as we had met. But I was used to seeing men falling in love with the first woman they'd meet, women falling in love with their indifferent, Prozium-shot husbands, after they'd cease their dose. It took him about a year to adjust, learn to name and distinguish one feeling from another. By the time he was emotionally stable, he had realized we were, actually, friends. After, we laughed about it. Now, Errol is gone, there isn't much to laugh about anymore, and in this grey, ugly cell, I am falling in love with someone else.

Suddenly, in a sweeping motion, you push the metal case off the table, stand up and grab me. I am too surprised to resist you, or even scream. You shove me against the table and the cold concrete hurts my back.

"Tell me the truth!" you yell at me, your face contorted with rage.

There is no more truth to tell that what I've already told you and I just stare at you, breathing fast. You're pressing me against the table, and your face is so close to mine I can see every little line, your freckled brown eyes, the trembling of your lashes. Slowly, your features soften, your anger recedes, and your face takes an strange expression, between wonder and bewilderment. Your lips part slightly and for a split second, I'm sure you're going to kiss me. And John - how I wish you'd kiss me.

Have you ever had a real kiss? A passionate, mutual kiss, the kind that only people who feel can share? You probably haven't, and it breaks my heart.

You don't kiss me. Eventually, you let go of me and you withdraw towards the door, as if my mere presence in the room was burning you. I slowly get up and I raise my head to look directly at you. I'm still shattered by what just happened. Your hand on the handle of the cell's door, you can't look at me when you say, "You were lovers." The words sound clumsy, and how couldn't they? You don't know what lovers are. It's no more a question, just a mere statement of facts. I take these last seconds to scrutinize your face, the pain etched in your features, the empty sound of your words echoing against the concrete walls. Are you jealous of Errol? Do you wish you had met me before? Do you wish I was your lover? I wish I would have been here to teach you the meaning of that word.

Without a glance, you escape through the door, and I am left alone, waiting for the guards to take me back to my cell.


	3. Robbie

_How I wish you were here  
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl  
Year after year_

Pink Floyd, _Wish You Were Here_

* * *

**Robbie**

Dad will be home soon. I must remember never to call him _Dad_ when he's here. The name escaped Lisa's mouth once, and he gave her an odd look. If I knew he could feel, I would have said he was surprised, maybe a little touched. I ceased my dose the night they came to take Mom and I took Lisa off it too. Since then, I've learned to pinpoint and name each emotion. I'm not sure I'm using all the right names, but most of them I feel like I've always known. I must remember them from the past. I guess we never really forget.

A few days ago, Dad brought home a little puppy. He thinks we won't notice. The thought makes me smile. He's so delusional sometimes. He hid the puppy in his room, thinking we would never go there. And even if we didn't, the dog made such pitiful noises, yelping in his little puppy voice and scratching the door to get out, that we noticed right away.

Lisa was the one who ran to open Dad's bedroom door. She's too impulsive and spontaneous, and although I love these qualities about her, most of the time, I'm worried she'll let something slip. So far, she hasn't. The puppy burst out of the room and ran towards me, his nails scratching the hardwood floor. He crashed into me, unable to brake, and Lisa and I collapsed with laughter. That's all it took, two seconds. We were already crazy about the dog.

I guess that's what animals do to us, and why they're banned from our world. I think even the most Prozium-shot person in Libria would feel a stir of warmth at the sight of a puppy. I wonder where Dad found the dog. But honestly, it's not so important. The important thing is, not only did he let the animal live, he also took the risk to take it with him and hide it. There is only one explanation to this behavior: Dad is changing. He's starting to feel.

And he's probably terrified. After all, Lisa and I have been under Prozium for only a few years in our lives. Dad is much older than us, his doses are much heavier, and if he's only ceasing them now - that must be really hard for him. Also, my instinct tells me that if he's as good at hiding the skipped intervals of Prozium as he is at hiding the puppy, then it can't be long before he's discovered... and I can't bear the thought of losing him.

After that realization dawned on me, I went to the bathroom and I looked everywhere. There were no signs of unused Prozium vials. I called Lisa and she came in, followed by the dog.

"I named him Puppy", she announced proudly.

I smiled at her. "I need your help," I told her. "Dad is hiding his Prozium somewhere, and I can't find it. We need to find it before someone else does."

Her face became serious. "Puppy can help, too," she said.

We searched the unit as carefully as we could. Puppy seemed to understand we were looking for something, because he followed us everywhere, his nose on the floor, sniffing at every corner. Finally, we walked back where our search had started, in the bathroom. Lisa leaned against the sink and sighed.

"We're too little," she said, her voice a little whiny. "Dad is so much taller than us, he could hide them in a place higher up." She raised her head and tried to see her reflexion in the bathroom mirror. It was hanging too high for her, and I could barely see the top of my head in it. But intuition had struck, and I ran out of the bathroom. I grabbed the small stool in our bedroom and carried it back to the bathroom. I placed it in front of the sink. Holding Puppy in my arms, I stepped on the stool and held him close to the mirror.

"Can you smell something?" I asked him.

Puppy let out a happy bark and wriggled his tail. He hadn't done this before.

"I think there's something behind the mirror," I told Lisa. "Hold Puppy for me."

As she reached up and took the dog in her arms, I tried to pull at the mirror. At first, it seemed glued to the wall. And yet, when I pulled at the sides a little harder, I felt it move. There was something behind it. I pulled harder, until finally the mirror detached from the wall with a jerk. I almost lost my balance, but the Monastery had trained me well enough. There was no way I was going to fall - especially holding in my hands a mirror that, if shattered, would give away the entire family. I steadied myself and looked at what laid behind it. It looked like an air vent, a grey hole in the wall, pipes and drains and, a little further down, a ventilation box that gave a familiar golden glimmer. On top of it were stacked dozens of tiny Prozium vials.

A chill went down my spine. There were so many already. How long had it been? It would require extra secrecy to take them and destroy them. If I took all of them at once, Dad would notice. So I decided to grab a handful and leave the rest there.

Now, every day, after Dad leaves for work, and just before Lisa and I go to school, I take one or two vials from his cache and I take them with me to the Monastery. The best way to destroy Prozium vials is the official way. I toss them in the garbage container at the end of the day, and the container crushes them into oblivion. Whatever mush is left from the container is sent to burn in the electricity plant outside the city. Nobody has ever suspected me, especially as I am the best student of my generation - just like my dad was before me.

I watch Dad when he thinks I don't. I can't remember a time when I didn't love him. I was too young before I ceased my dose to remember anything - or maybe the blankness of Prozium isn't anything worth remembering. The only memories I have of my younger years are those of my mom holding me in her arms and kissing me. I don't remember feeling anything at the time, but now, these memories warm me up. Our mom loved us, that's what I tell Lisa. Now, we only have each other to love. We snuggle up together in front of the window and watch the sun set on Libria. This is probably the only affection we'll ever get. When we hear Dad's keys in the lock, we let go of each other and we pretend to watch Father's evening speech on the television screen.

One day, maybe Dad will hold us, too. He already loves us, I can tell. He thinks I don't notice it, but I'm too well-trained not to. When he looks at us, his eyes are softer and sadder. Before, they were just hard and unfeeling. He's more scared of what would happen to us than what could happen to him if his treason was discovered. I love him even more for it. I feel like he's the child and I'm the grown-up, the one who must protect him.

I just want to tell him we're all going to be fine in the end. I believe the day will come when Lisa and I are free to hug him and kiss him when he comes back home. When we can all go for a walk outside and hold his hand. The day will come when we no longer have to call him John, and we can simply call him Dad.


End file.
